


And other things that don't get old

by protagonistically (the_protagonist)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Filicide, Gen, Reboot, Resurrection, fake!drake, nu52
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_protagonist/pseuds/protagonistically
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Damian deserves the chance to grow up.  And Bruce deserves to see it.</p>
<p>There's always collateral damage, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place some time after 'Batman and Red Hood' and 'Batman and Red Robin' and thus, after Damian's death. It goes AU from there.
> 
> Please mind the time stamp. Also, there is a major, additional warning at the bottom, that gives away the ending to this fic.

Five days ago

Bruce knocks on the door, the gold letters ‘5S’ hang onto the wood with rusty nails and prayers and swings back and forth every time his fist meets the hard, painted surface.  Green carpet, institutional-grade that’s manufactured to hide stands and be mass-produced is under his feet.  The toe of his boot is directly over a suspicious brown-red mark.

There is no welcome mat.  Bruce vaguely understands that there is no deeper meaning to that fact.

When the door swings opens, the face that greets him is round and healthily flushed.  Clear skin and blue eyes, clean hair and fresh smelling clothes.  Tim has always been so good at taking care of himself – it’s the best part about Tim, Bruce often thinks.

The boy-man- _teenager_ doesn’t let him in.  The door stays half-way closed, and he’s blocking the space with his body so that Bruce can’t see inside of the apartment, can’t hear anything going on inside, but he's distracted by the quiet breathing of Tim.  There is no echo of another person, a radio or a television creating dissonance in the rooms.

It’s just Tim, holding his ground as he’s so oft to do, not caving into Bruce’s whims and wishes and he vaguely wants to step further into the boy’s space.  Threaten and loom and try to get him to take a step backwards.

Instead he lets his fingernails bite into the fleshy part of his palm when he squeezes his hands into fists and takes a deep breath.

“Tim-“ He starts; pauses, but he’s surprised how _easy_ the words come out, “Tim, I’m so sorry.”

White knuckles bloom on Tim’s hand, the one curled around the doorframe.  It’s a strong, pale forearm, dusted in fine, sparse black hairs.  A silvery occasional scar shines at him, caught in the incandescent light that illuminates the foyer.  Pride swells in his chest, flutters behind his sternum, because he only half helped sculpt those muscles, the power there.  The memory.

(Tim did a lot of the work, he’ll give the boy that much credit. A work ethic like Tim’s, like Bruce’s, it’s a thing to marvel at, really.)

Bruce has to linger on those smart, thin fingers.  Precise and dangerous on various different objects.

“I’m so sorry, Tim.  I just..." Bruce pauses for a beat, "I just wanted you to know that.”  He’s sorry; he’s sincere about it.  He is.  He swallows again, mirroring Tim’s throat that lines up to Bruce’s chest.

And Tim’s shoulders are pulled in and rolled over a little, protecting his center, his heart.  He’s seen those arms, lanky and corded, wrapped around Tim’s own shoulders dozens upon dozens of times.

Tim gives himself surrogate hugs a lot, he wonders if Tim realizes what he’s doing, where the boy learned that habit.

“Of course, Bruce.  Of,” Tim has to swallow something down again.  Emotion or stress or maybe he had been mid-bite before he answered the door, “Of course, it’s okay.  You have- had every right-” 

“So, do you forgive me?” Bruce bullies his way into the kid’s sentence.

Tim's voice is more tenor then alto, it matches his body, his face and stance.  “You’re always forgiven, Bruce.  You _know_ that.”  

And that’s what he was banking on, if he does know that he doesn’t quiet deserve that sort of devotion.

“Thank you,” Bruce smiles, small and quiet and turns and walks back down the five flights of stairs.  Leaves Tim standing there, listens for the sound of the door shutting, but it never comes, even when he reaches the bottom of the steps.

-tbc


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Damian deserves the chance to grow up. And Bruce deserves to see it.
> 
> There's always collateral damage, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place some time after 'Batman and Red Hood' and 'Batman and Red Robin' and thus, after Damian's death. It goes AU from there.
> 
> Please mind the time stamp.

Four Days Ago

He intercepts Tim on his run in Central Park. 

It’s too big of a city for him to even _feign_ kismet, or anything like that.  After all, Bruce is never in this city; he _hates_ New York City.  Avoids it at almost all costs.  Bruce honestly doesn’t understand how Tim can live here.  But, now that he thinks about it, the fact that Bruce hates it so much is probably just a large chunk of the appeal.

Bruce deserves that vitriol; he deserves all of the resentment, of course.

But the fact remains, that the city is too big, too crowded, and he’s there to infrequently to pass this off as a mere coincidence and he’s not going to insult Tim’s intelligence by trying it out.

“Hey,” is what he goes with, when he falls in step with his former partner.  Tim’s in well fitted grey sweat pants and a black, zipped-up hoody and his running shoes are beaten up and neon pink.

They're obnoxious.  Bruce thinks he could probably see them from space, from the Watchtower.  They hurt his eyes a little, when he looks directly at them, beating down on the pavement in circular motions. 

There is no GPS chip in Tim’s phone, and Bruce hasn’t put a tracer on the kid in over two years, but it doesn’t really matter much, because Tim’s a creature of habit at the very heart of it.  The kid excels with routine, something Bruce both gave to him and took away.

Every Tuesday he runs the Park, on Thursday he runs the Bridge.  On Sunday he navigates his way through Bushwick or Williamsburg.  He uses the subways to stretch and rest.  He gets coffee from the same place in Park Slope.

The rhythm of Tim’s feet, the pace he’s set, doesn’t stutter or falter.  His breathing remains even, breaths coming out of flushed pink, open lips.  Blue eyes turn to him, cheeks red with the morning wind and he looks confused.  He pants out a simple, “Hi?” back.

He is already four miles into his 6k, Bruce still fresh at two, but Tim’s pace is good, for his knees, for his breath, for his third run of the week.  It’s easy to fall instep with him, like they used to in the beginning, but Tim is so much stronger now, a better runner then he was then.

Their silence and hard work is companionable and compatible.  A slap in the face.

In between their labored breathing and the sound of rubber on pavement a beep chirps from Tim’s pocket and they slow down to a jog and a few minutes later, a walk.  Strawberry Fields is quiet, the American elms are covered in green leaves already and they walk the perimeter of the path until Bruce sees the beginning of 71st and the traffic that starts polluting the relative stillness of the park.

In another ten minutes they dodge the light sidewalk traffic of early morning commuters, and elbow their way into a small café off of 72nd. 

Tim handles the street and navigation well; like he’s been living in the city for years instead of just months. 

The barista greets Tim with an air of familiarity, and the blonde cashier, belly pregnant and swollen, flirts _shamelessly_ with Tim while he blushes red like a tomato with a crooked smile.

“Any day now, huh?” Tim pays for two drip coffees and Bruce eaves drops from the table by the window.

The girl pats her belly and laughs, “Three more weeks.  I only _look_ like I’m due in ten minutes.”

“You look beautiful.”  Tim tells her earnestly.

“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes and blushes, “Oh my god – sto-op.”  She hands Tim his receipt, “But I’m glad you stopped by.  Tomorrow is my last day.”

Tim takes the two coffees in to-go cups, wrapped in java jackets.  “But you have my number, so if you need anything-“

“Yeah.  _Yes_.”  The girl smiles, “Thanks, Tim.”

Tim raises one of the cups in a cheers gesture, and walks towards where Bruce is pretending to read an abandoned newspaper.

“So,” Tim sets down the cups and takes the seat opposite of Bruce, “What are you doing here?”

Bruce slips off the lid of his cup and lets the steam hit his face, “Meeting at the NYC office.”

“So you just decided to go on a run in Central Park, and end up running into me?  That’s a co-winky-dink.”  Tim pours too much loose sugar into his cup.

“I was in town.  Thought I’d come see you this morning.”  He takes a careful sip of his own black coffee and ignores the veiled shock registering on Tim’s face.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you two days in a row in over a year.  This is… a thing, I guess.”  Tim’s pandering for words.  He looks deeply unsettled and he scratches a hand across the back of his neck before they go back to the table and fiddle with the Splenda packets in their ceramic caddy.

It’s silent between them, before Bruce thanks Tim for the coffee.  It’s a pretty good roast and he can see why Tim likes this place.

“Technically, I should be thanking you for the coffee.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

More silence gets chewed between sips of coffee.  Tim isn’t an especially introverted person, it shows from how Tim will open his mouth, close it back again.  The way he chews on the paper rim of the coffee cup.  He has things to say, but he’s not sure how to talk to Bruce anymore, if he ever did before.  It was so easy with Dick and Jason, easier yet with Damian.  He thinks he could be better at this if it were one of them.

“What do you… what are your plans for the day?”  He offers.  Damian would be required to do schoolwork with Alfred.  And then training in the cave with Bruce.  He knows now, that Damian had his own project he worked on while Bruce was in the office.

It’s hard not to be so resentful of that now.

Tim shrugs, spins the cardboard jacket around the table, “I usually hang out here for a bit, read and stuff.  I thought I’d explore Hell’s Kitchen later.”  Tim slumps in his seat, “I might go to the gym.  My days are pretty, uh… wide open.”

The only attachment Tim has is to Red Robin.  “I see.”

“Are you—“ Tim pauses, “Are you talking with Dick and Jason too?”

He considers the kid in front of him; there’s no reason to lie, “Dick and I talk occasionally.  Jason is still, rightly so, angry.”

“Oh, well, you know Jason, he needs to be mad for a while… he’ll come around.”

Bruce says he knows better to ask for Jason’s forgiveness right away.  He knows Jason better then Tim does.  The anger blooms like ink in water, anger at Tim for no reason other then the fact that Tim _jammed_ himself into everyone’s life.  He has to shake himself to dilute the frustration.  “So,” he breathes out, “You just… wander the city?”

He watches as Tim smiles at a man in a nice business suit, probably in his early 30’s, and he catches the man looking at Tim’s face, then body, the eyes running the usual course, “Oh, yeah.  I’m sort of like a less awesome _Gossip Girl_ character.”

The suit glances back at Tim again before he turns and orders his own drink from the cashier.  Bruce watches as the man slides the girl his business card and glances over at Tim with a knowing look.  Tim’s an adult (except not really) and Tim can do what he wants (except not really). 

Bruce schools his face neutral and waits for Tim to turn his attention back to him before he asks curiously, “What’s a ‘gossip girl’?”


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Damian deserves the chance to grow up. And Bruce deserves to see it.
> 
> There's always collateral damage, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place some time after 'Batman and Red Hood' and 'Batman and Red Robin' and thus, after Damian's death. It goes AU from there.
> 
> Please mind the time stamp.

Three days ago

Instead of putting together a room for Tim, like he did for Dick, like he did for Jason, Bruce had gifted Tim with the coach house tucked away in the back of the Manor, just to the right of the old stables. 

It had been re-finished in the fifties with the intention of it being used by the maids and various cooks and help that were employed to the property, but, as times and customs changed, the space largely remained unused.  This didn't stop Alfred from having the furnishings and different fixtures refreshed just a year before the plane struck the Twin Towers.

The space was suited for a couple, a bachelor, but he gave it to a fourteen year-old to do with what he wished.

Bruce told himself it was because Tim needed the privacy, but if he were to be honest with himself, it was because he didn’t want some kid in that part of his life again.  He didn’t want to _care_ , and by keeping Tim out from in between the walls of the Manor and merely in the confines of the sedimentary cave ceilings, it was easy to establish the type of relationship that was attached by weak, breakable strings.

Before Damian had died, he hadn’t been inside the space since he helped Tim move in over two years ago.  That day when he helped carry a few cardboard boxes of the scrawny kid’s meager possessions.  Helped him wedge an old mission-style lounge chair in through the narrow doors and into the open living space. 

Sun bleached and cracking leather, it didn’t match the rest of the room.  It stuck out like a sore thumb, draped in a wooly, plaid afghan. 

Everything else is the same, though.  The kitchen table is bare of anything, there’s a small layer of dust over the hard surfaces of furniture, but the living room is pretty much the same as the day Tim moved in. 

He knows, though, that Tim ate at least three dinners a week at that table.  Tim sat there and studied for his GED for a few weeks the same summer Bruce sent him to France to further his training and keep him further away for six weeks.

The floorboards creak under his shoes and he knows the sounds well now, he memorized which boards were loose.  Tim marked them with white chalk in the seam, mapping them out for himself.

Bruce has slept a few nights in Tim’s old room.  It’s better, unhaunted by ghosts from inside his home.  This room doesn’t have any of his memories tacked into the walls, resting on the floors. Lauhter in the hallways.

Old gymnastics medals are pinned up onto the walls, but they mean next to nothing to Bruce.  There’s dozens of them, though; mementos that remind Tim that he had another life once-

(Bruce had four or more other lives)

\- A life with a mom and a dad and their sacrifice for their son’s dream. 

With no financial burdens anymore, Bruce made sure of that (he'd bought their son fair and square), Janet “Drake” is now eight months pregnant.  He thinks Tim knows, but he’s not sure.  That’s not something they would ever talk about.  The possibility of  him having a younger brother or sister. 

Jack and Janet stare at him in an old photograph taped to the mirror over the dresser.  Tim is about eleven in the photo and he’s looking off to the left, mouth open as if he was looking at something amusing.

The gap between his front teeth is ridiculous and it makes Bruce smile for what it is, but he doesn’t relate to it at all.  The family frozen in there.  It’s like watching a sitcom.

A sigh is ripped from his chest when Bruce sits on the edge of the unmade bed and pulls out his phone.  The sheets kicked off from his restless sleep two days ago.  He gets a better sleep in the cave, but he likes Tim’s mattress, Tim’s old band posters that mean nothing to him.

Yesterday he bought Dick a round-trip ticket from O’Hare to Newark, emailed Dick the itinerary and a plea to come home for dinner tomorrow, for the family.  If not for Bruce, then for Alfred and Tim.

The email Bruce reads then is a lot of excuses that sounds legitimate and sincere, but read as a resounding ‘no’, none the less.  Bruce resists the urge to throw the phone across the room, smash it to pieces in his grip, but instead dials Dick’s number and leaves a message telling him to call home, call Alfred, ‘make sure to talk to your brothers, please, you’re the oldest.’ And then he checks his voicemail and isn’t surprised when he hasn’t heard back from Jason, but isn’t surprised either.  Same as everyday for the last month.

Tim is coming to dinner, though. 

 _‘Three times in one week? It’s like I don’t know you at all anymore.”_   The teen had tried to joke.  Tim lets him know he’ll be in by 5:30 tomorrow, that he’s been itching to take his bike out on the turnpike for a few weeks now.

He knew Tim would come, though.  Besides the boy’s obvious loneliness and crippling boredom, Bruce had mentioned over their cups of coffee, that he has a contact in Rome that needs some help.  Something fairly long term, but would benefit greatly from something hands on rather then remote babysitting.  There’s tactics there that Tim likes to know about and help plan.  Tim appreciates the why’s, the mechanical structure of reasons and plans more then Jason and Dick, but probably less then Damian had. 

Bruce likes seeing the teen’s growth, too, his own sort of personal stake in it.

Because he does appreciate the boy’s opinions and thoughtful observations, more-so then the sarcastic and unhelpful comments that pepper his conclusions.

He sighs, turns his nose in towards the bed, in towards the soft sheets smell vaguely like Tim, and it’s strange to him, that he knows what Tim’s soap smells like, when he lies down onto the bed, and inhales deeply into the soft pillowcase, committing it to some sort of memory, but not necessarily a happy one.

It’s still and quiet in the apartment, the windows are open, and Bruce has to tell Alfred that their dinner party is down to two.  He needs to get the file together for Tim to look at, pull something together that is believable.  But instead he pulls up the quilt over his shoulders and shuts his eyes.

He dreams about Damian in the center of the Colosseum, his boy is smiling about something, crooked teeth bright against his tanned, round face and his shoes are just absolutely ruined.

-tbc


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Damian deserves the chance to grow up. And Bruce deserves to see it.
> 
> There's always collateral damage, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place some time after 'Batman and Red Hood' and 'Batman and Red Robin' and thus, after Damian's death. It goes AU from there.
> 
> Please mind the time stamp.

Two days ago

Bruce gets in at a quarter past four.  A shower is in order, because he’s been breaking out into a cold sweat nearly constantly for four days now.  He can barely sleep either, just nods off in small, unsatisfying intervals before he wakes abruptly, Damian’s face still visible behind his eyelids, Jason’s screams, Tim’s eyes, and Dick’s smile.  His parent’s don’t make an appearance, and it’d be a relief, except this is so much worse. 

He was hoping to sneak back into the coach house and doze on the couch for an hour before Tim was due, but he hears the boy before he sees him, his voice carrying through the hall adjacent to the kitchen. 

Tim’s back is to him, an open target, but he’s leaning over the ledge of the kitchen island with the sleeves of his button up rolled to his elbows.  He can see Alfred’s profile, and they are rolling out sheets of fresh dough on the floured countertop, Tim’s chatting, upbeat sounding, and Alfred looks minorly interested and focused on the task at hand.

He watches as the young man twists his neck, turns to try and rub his nose on the clean fabric of his shoulder and when he does, Tim see’s Bruce frozen in the hall, in between the motions of hanging up his jacket in the coat closet. 

“Bruce!” Tim’s voice is light, bright and has laughter placed over it, like a sheet of muslin.   “How are you dough-ing?’  Tim snorts out a laugh that’s so inherently _boy_ Bruce can’t even help it when the corner of his mouth rises in a twitch of a grin.

“That’s awful.”

The smile wanes a few degrees and Tim turns his attention back to his task, “Not planning on going into comedy, Bruce.”

When Bruce steps into the kitchen proper and he’s greeted with the smell of boiling potatoes, onions and cheese.  It’s a thick smell, savory and deep.  Almost buttery in the air.

“Timothy is showing me how to make pierogies, sir.”  Alfred glances up at him for a minute, something unreadable on his face.

“Pierogi, Alfie.  It’s already plural.”  Tim starts rolling out another sheet of dough, “My grandma’s recipe, seriously, it’s worth killing over, so Alfred, you better be able to keep non-Bat-based secrets.”

Bruce stands back, observes the two as they work, looks at the two bowls filled with steaming, mashed potato, “It smells good,” he offers honestly.

_Off the boat Polish_ are the words Tim used to describe his mother.  ‘Bruce,’ Tim had leveled him with a look when he’d screwed up his face at the words on the boy’s birth certificate, ‘my names is Tymoteusz Jakson – off the _boat_ Polish.’

“You’re pretty early, Tim.  I wasn’t expecting you until at least six.”

He’s not sure why he even brings it up.  After Tim’s morning workout, if he’s not with the Titans, Bruce knows that there isn’t much for him to do.

Tim has giant holes in his days, the free time where he should be in school or after school activity, he should be dating, Tim has none of that. 

It’s the free time that gets Tim into the most trouble.  Idle hands and what not.  If Brue was smarter, he’d restrain the boy, give him more to do, force him to do something regimented, but by now it’s too late; he’s given the boy to much rope, to many resources.   And honestly, Tim’s idle hands are useful nine times out of ten and now Bruce can only hope the kid doesn’t hang himself.

A shoulder lifts into a shrug; “I figured that I’d bug Alfred for a while-“

Alfred interrupts by clearing his throat softly, “Actually, it’s been some time since I’ve had two strong young men sans injury in the Manor, Master Bruce, and if you wouldn’t mind, there are a few things I could use Tim for, and yourself, once you are settled in.”

By the time Bruce is showered and changed, a twenty minute power nap stolen in his sitting room, he finds Tim on top of an 18 foot ladder, carefully wiping down the blades of a ceiling fan.

Tim glances down at him, and Bruce hesitates before he puts both hands on the cool metal of the ladder, holding it steady, while Tim finishes up. 

“Thanks,” Tim says when he climbs down the steps, jumps from the sixth one from the floor.  “Alfred asked us to roll up the area rug in the banquet hall.   The one with the flowers, he said, but I think they both have flowers.”

A sigh escapes Bruce and they walk shoulder to shoulder towards the hall, “I think that’s the point.”

They work in relative silence, just instructions and suggestions on how to tackle the two giant rugs.  Even though they are heavy and cumbersome, the job is finished quickly, and well, they’ve always worked well together.  That was never a problem.

The buttery smell of pierogi grows stronger in the air and by the time they are done carrying the area rugs into the auxiliary hall for the cleaners to pick up, they are breathing heavy and Bruce can hear Tim’s stomach let out small growls of hunger.

“We can eat whenever the food is ready-“ He offers.  “I thought maybe Dick or Barbara might show-“

Tim just shrugs, and says it’s fine, that he wasn’t expecting anyone else.

Tim and Dick are always on fairly amicable terms, but they are not especially close anymore.  Bruce wonders how Tim can continually forgive him, but with Dick, and whatever choices he made when Bruce was dead, Tim hasn’t fully forgiven him yet. 

It’s a double standard Bruce will never ask about.

Alfred had mentioned that it was because he never expected Dick to choose Damian over Tim.  It was a blindside hit and those, Bruce knows from experience, are the hardest ones to heal up. 

Jason and Tim, though... They run super hot and super cold.  There’s very little in between and the climate between them changes faster then a blink of an eye, it seems.  They may be on the wagon; Bruce isn’t too sure.

Tim doesn’t offer whether he’s spoken to them or not, his adopted brothers.  He doesn’t offer Bruce anything about them.  And it’s a twisted feeling inside of him - knowing that Tim talks to them more then he does.  At the same time, however, his heart jumps, Bruce _gloats_ on the inside, because he knows that Tim won’t ever have either of them like Bruce had them.  Like he has them.  Like they love him.

Outsiders can’t breach blood.  Tim is learning this the hardest way possible.

The pierogi at dinner are just as delicious as they had smelled.  Alfred used the freshest ingredients, nothing he’s not used to in other meals, but for some reason the dumplings start to turn over in his stomach and he can only finish two and then he picks at his salad while he listens to Tim’s light chatter. 

Tim talks about how his parents wanted to take him back to Poland, so that he could meet his busia and his other relatives but Europe was expensive and he was in training and it’s all the same with Tim.  The boy talks about his mom and dad and he talks about gymnastics and everything revolves around those three things.

Both of them avoid talking about Damian.  No talk about Jason or Dick.  Tim doesn’t bring up what happened in Greenland, either. 

It’s... Amicable. 

There are lulls in conversation, moments where Tim’s eyes glaze over and he’ll drop words in the middle of an unassuming sentence.  Bruce watches as Tim freezes, his body goes vacant, the curl of his shoulders distressed.  Tim’s irises get overtaken by blown pupils pushing out the blue and they swim in his eyes like fish in a bowl. 

Something has been up with Tim for a while now, he knows, Alfred mentioned something about the boy’s demeanor, but Bruce isn’t as unobservant of the kid as Alfred seems to think.  He just doesn’t know how to bring it up.  Tim is as effective in the field as ever.  He’s leading a team of hot heads with combatant personalities.  Dangerous metas.  Bruce understands the stress of that better then anyone.

Bruce doesn't think about what happened with Jason and Tim and the Joker.  It's easier not to bring it up.  He knows Jason nor Tim ever will.

Tim’s skin is warm under his fingers when Bruce touches Tim’s arm, shakes him out of his head and wherever he had gone to on the last pass.

Tim comes to startled with a deep breath that hurts Bruce’s lungs.  A laugh is forced out, and then Tim is draining his glass of water.  “Sorry, what were you saying?”  Tim asks, picks up his fork from where it fell on the table.

“Do you ever think about going back with your parents?”  He says after a minute.

“Like, in WP?”  Tim asks unnecessarily.  He gathers his napkin from his lap and places it on his plate.   Looks everywhere but at Bruce.  “Well, I _miss_ them.”

Bruce waits, because Tim will clear himself up – he always does.  Tim is reliable in every way.

“When you offered me the chance to work with you… Bruce, it was great, because I knew I’d be good at this.  I knew it… it worked well with my world view and how much of a mark I wanted to leave on everything.”  Tim is still looking at his plate, “I know I’m to, ah, hyper and I’m everywhere.  There aren’t a lot of things that I’ll be able to do while being active and receiving recognition.  That sounds bad, but it’s true.”

Tim thrives on praise, on positive reinforcement.  Tim can’t sit still for longer then six minutes without getting up to do something.

One day Bruce watched Tim annoy Alfred to the point where he handed Tim a two story ladder, a basket of light bulbs and a dust cloth and told not to bother him until every light in the Manor was bright and dust free.

Bruce would give Tim puzzles or prototypes to work through, wouldn’t talk to him until the kid figured it out.  Quick ones took 20 minutes, the good, long ones, took weeks.

“I guess I thought it’d be different, though.  Like, when I saw you with Dick and Jason.  I thought it’d be… not exactly like that.  For _obvious_ reasons.  But I thought it’d be a little like that.

“And I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for everything you’ve given me.  Because I am.  I am, I swear.  I just thought… I thought we could be friends.”

There’s something clawing up Bruce’s throat, lodged in there tight, it burns in his eyes and his sinuses.  “We are,”  He chokes out.  His hands, his fingers dig into the tender muscle of his thigh.  The pain grounds him.

“Nah, we aren’t really.  We try; we’re good co-workers, I think.  Good partners.  I mean, Bruce-“  Tim glances up at him really fast, up and down and then back and he’s staring now, “Oh, Bruce, it’s okay.  I’m… I’m a lot, and you’re a lot.  And I know that it’s hard to be my friend.  I’m pretty… self aware?”

“Tim-“

“It’s really okay, you know.  I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be like with the others, I thought this was just the person that you grew into, I guess.  But then it was obvious with—“ Tim chokes on the name, “It was me you didn’t like, but it’s okay.  I’m mostly over it now.”

The crushing feeling of failure never gets old.  It always hurts even more then the last time.  And Bruce feels like a failure right now.  Because he never tried with Tim.  He just never tried.  Not really.  He can’t keep his kids safe and he never tried to with Tim.

“So, to go back with mom and dad.  I’d like that.  One day, I’d like to go back to people just wanting me for me… but for now, I think there’s a lot of unfinished stuff to take care of.  And I think you still need me, even if you don’t really want me.” Tim scratches his forehead, tries to smile, but it comes out twisted and wrong.

He should try to argue, he should, because Tim is a _gift_.  An amazing gift, but the boy sounds like he wouldn’t be able to take it, he sounds resigned.  And there’s a lot of truth to what Tim had said.  It itches under his skin.  Makes him want to shower and scrub at himself until he’s raw.

Instead he shakes himself, because his insides are shivering, ice cold through his veins.

“Let’s grab a drink and I’ll tell you about the Rome project.”  Is what Bruce says after Tim spills his guts. 

But this is something they know.  Something usually saved for lonely holidays before he knew he had a biological son, something before Tim stopped trying so hard.  Because Tim drinks his finger of whiskey slowly, sip by sip and Bruce does the same with his own three.  And they go over the hard copy of notes that Bruce put together, Tim offering his advice, smelling like spirits, elbows on his knees.

And that's how Jason finds them, when he storms in, tall and strong and wrapped in an old, scarred leather jacket that looks like private armor. “Jason,” Bruce breathes out, knows he’s not drunk, but he has to double check himself anyway.  Quickly, Bruce takes the papers from Tim, pushes them to his other side, out of the way by under the throw pillow on the side.

“What are you doing?”

Bruce isn’t sure if Jason is talking to him or Tim, and Tim doesn’t seem to know either.  They share a quick, confused glance.

“Well?!” Jason is angry, he has every right to be.  Every single right.

“Jason, do you want to sit dow-“

Jason drops his original line of questioning and barks, “Tim, get your stuff, I need your help.”  His voice is shaking with rage. 

Tim looks confused, which is hilarious on Tim’s face, “Don’t you have like… Red Arrow and Starf-“

The older man growls again, “It’s a Gotham job, kid, so let’s go.  Vamanos. “

“Jason-“ Bruce can’t help the longing in his voice when he says the boy’s name, “You-“, You look good; I’m sorry; don’t stay away.  You’re here. “Do you want a drink?”  Is what Bruce asks dumbly. 

“No, Bruce, I don't want a drink.  And you let Tim drink?  He’s _sixteen_ , Bruce.”  Jason looks so angry, so incredulous.

“And you’re _eighteen_ ,” Tim says pointedly before he rolls his eyes and sighs the way only a sixteen year old actually can, “It’s fine, Jace, it’s our thing.”

“You never even let me have coffee and you let a sixteen-year-old vigilante drink hard alcohol?  How things change, huh?”  He watches Bruce with mistrust, frost in his eyes.  “Let’s go, Tim.”

Bruce sighs, checks the papers safely under the pillow, “Is there anything that I-“

“No.  Tim, you got everything?”

“My coat's in the closet off the East parlor-“

“Good, I parked on the East side.  Let’s _go_.”  His voice is firm, angry.  Hostile.

Tim looks at Bruce with his eyebrows raised, he’s trying to put the pieces together but he’s missing too much information from Jason and himself.  So he just raises his hand in a goodbye while Jason steers him out with a handful of his shirt.  “I’ll talk to you later, Bruce.”

He will. 

Bruce takes the papers out from the seat.  Straightens them, neatens them in their pile.  It’s incentive enough to have Tim back sooner rather then later.

He only hears one bike engine outside, leaving the driveway quick as possible. 

Tim left his bike here too.

He texts Tim forty minutes later:

‘Your bike’s here and the Rome report.  Breakfast tomorrow?’

The response is delayed, his phone chirps an hour later when Bruce is in the cave _not_ looking at Damian’s locker, _not_ looking at Damian’s uniform.

‘yeah sleeping at Jason’s auxiliary on Halstead and 21st. B there @ 11.’

‘See you then, Tim.’ He responds back and goes to change into his cape and cowl. 


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Damian deserves the chance to grow up. And Bruce deserves to see it.
> 
> There's always collateral damage, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place some time after 'Batman and Red Hood' and 'Batman and Red Robin' and thus, after Damian's death. It goes AU from there.
> 
> Please mind the time stamp. Also, there is a major, additional warning at the bottom, that gives away the ending to this fic.
> 
> This chapter is a flashback, essentially. It's important to remember that.

Six days ago   
  


Bruce hasn’t slept, _really_ slept since he held his dead son in his arms.  It’s this reason, he thinks; that he can’t react fast enough to what’s happening in front of his eyes.

Because one second… one god damn second ago he has pushed the cowl off of his sweaty forehead, closed his eyes, they were so sore, so tired, so painful, like knives or something – sand in a microchip.  He closes his eyes for just one second and when he opens them he feels like he was hit with a wave and now there’s something over his vision, flooding his eyelids.

He blinks. Blinks again, tries to clear his vision.

It doesn’t go away and now there’s rushing in his ears and it sounds like his heart is crashing out of his chest, but then another heart beat joins it.  And then another and another and another and it’s too much pressure now.

White overtakes his vision.

And it’s silent after another second.  Bruce can’t feel anything, can’t see anything.  The sensory deprivation is doing a job on his body.  Moving is difficult, he can’t smell anything or feel anything.  He thinks he’s still in the cave though.   There was no tug at his navel, no signs of the normal vertigo that would suggest he’s been moved. 

Vaguely, he wonders if he’s died.  Maybe that last patrol put him over the edge.  Maybe he’ll get to see _Damian_ , or his _parents_.  It sounds… It doesn’t sound bad at all.  It sounds—

_[Bruce Wayne_.]

It’s not a voice he recognizes, but if he could feel his body, he thinks it’d have chills running over and through it.  There’s something other-worldly about the it.  It’s coming at him from all directions.  It’s hard to tell if it’s one voice or many.  It _suffocates_ him.

_[Bruce Wayne_.]

He can’t answer back, but he sees a tunnel of black light in the white fog and he lets his mind follow it until he begins to smell the sedimentary rock that he’ll forever be able to recognize; he’s been smelling that atmosphere for five years now, every day. 

It’s the cave.  He’s not dead.  He won’t get to see his family.

_[You have family.]_

Bruce feels robbed and the scream is a surprise to him as it’s ripped from his throat.  “I have no one!”  He has no one, anymore.  He’s alone.  No one understands how hollow he is, how he feels.  Thin, as if a light breeze could punch a hole into his skin.  He’s unraveling, a once full blanket, reduced to mere strings and threads.

The cave is coming up now, on the periphery of his vision, he feels the ground solid under his boots.

_[There can be a trade then, Man of Bats, if you truly feel you have no one.]_   The voice is still projected all around him.  It hits every part of his body, the sexless, monotone echoing notes.

Bruce circles, looks for something to look at, to fight, to beat through the haze of white that clings to his irises, “You’re lying.  Who are you?"

_[We’re offering you a trade.]_

Bruce doesn’t know exactly what to think, the cave is untouched, he circles and circles, rocking back and forth on his heels and toes.  The security alarms are all silent.  Every last one of them.  “I don’t know what you are,” Bruce breathes out, his voice gravelly, like the loose rock under his feet, “-or what you think you’re doing, but you’re going to have to leave right now.“

Though his limbs are heavy, he takes a few steps closer to mainframes consoles.  The JL access code is-

_[‘We can give you your blood.’]_

That gives him pause.  He’s not injured.  He’s not even tired anymore.  His bruises that he’s suffered over the past several hours are gone, healed over, vanished like ghosts.  He has his blood.  He’s— his… “ _Damian?_ ”

_[‘We can give you your blood for a trade.’]_

He can’t stop himself from yelling, can’t stop the words that rip out of his mouth, “ _You_ have my son?  Give him to me!” He’s _screaming_ , he feels his face grow red and oh god, he’s so _angry_.  His anger makes him step forward, forward to nothing but as he tries to walk it’s harder all of a sudden.  His rage, his anger… it weighs him down until he’s sinking like a brick tossed into the sea.  He’s choking on it as it floods his body.

It’s harder to breath too.  Water in his lungs, something heavy on top of his chest.

‘Please,’ Bruce wheezes out, he’s desperate, he’s a man dying for air, ‘- _please_ give me my boy!’

_[‘It needs to be a trade-‘]_

“Just take me!” He’s on his knees now, both palms pressed on top of the cool ground.  “You can have me, just give me my son.”

_[‘You need to trade something else.  You are not a trade, you need to pay the price of flesh.  You cannot martyr.  That’s not a trade, man of bats.’]_

“You want—“

_[‘One of the three.  Blood for blood.  Son for a son.’]_

That makes him go even colder, his mouth goes dry.  That’s the price they want him to pay?  He has to make a sacrifice with something that isn’t his?  Something he has no control over?

That’s not fair.

_That’s not fair._

Anger courses through his whole frame, his blood sings with rage and his body reacts, energy sapping out of him like water being wrung out of a sponge.  He tries to scream but he just ends up with his face near the dust floor, rasping his words into the ancient ground.

_[‘It’s a high price.’]_   The voice (voices?) calmly tells him.  _[‘You have seven days to make a decision.’]_

Every breath is a laborious task; he feels like he’s breathing the air on the top of Mount Everest.  Each inhale scrubs the inside of his throat and lungs.  “How do I know,” he pants out, crawls forward to nowhere on his hands and knees, “How do I know you’re not even _lying_?”  Bruce sobs once again, “I just want my _son_.”

And then he’s crying openly, his forehead pressed to the old rock, he has no energy.  He really feels like he’s never been closer to death in his life.  He hurts, he aches, he wants to never feel anything ever again.

It’s quiet now, except for his cries, his sniffling and the sound of his sinuses being clogged with his anger and sadness.  He just cries and cries and he has no conscious idea of how much time passes, until the voices, much louder this time, so loud that they pound up against his skin, on his face and lips and vibrates inside of him like needles on top of his bones and muscles.

_[‘Look up, Man of Bats!’]_

And as loud as it was just a half a second ago, the noise is cut just as suddenly.  There is nothing, no sound at all.

Bruce forces his head up, doesn’t bother to wipe the snot from his face, the salt from his eyes.  The command was immediate and obvious.

Ahead of him, two feet from him, a screen of soft, gauzy muslin hangs there.  It filters some light and shadows, but he can’t see through it.  It’s shimmering and opaque until a dark figure starts to draw itself into the side of the fabric on the opposite side from Bruce. 

It’s a figure, he can see.  Bruce can see it’s smaller frame, short, skinny. 

_Oh_.  Oh, he _knows_ the slope of those shoulders.   He knows that height and that stance.  It hits him so hard in the stomach he has to fight the urge to dry heave.

“Damian?”  His voice his high to his own ears.  “Damian, is that you?”

A hand presses against the fabric, a small hand with long fingers and that’s Damian’s _hand_.  Bruce _knows_ it is!

“Damian!”  Bruce cries again.  Struggles to crawl forward towards his shrouded son.  “Damian, _please_!”

Bruce is sure that his fingers are bleeding as they scrabble for purchase on the ground.

It’s so hard, his limbs feel like lead, his rib cage hurts with every heartbeat.  He’s dragging an albatross across the world in two feet of stone. 

Just six more inches.

His son his there, just three more inches and the tips of his fingers reach to brush the muslin away, drawing them back like a curtain.

But there’s nothing on the other side.  Nothing is there.  The fabric shimmers away into nothing and Bruce drops again, drained, to tired to scream and cry this time.  It’s the only thing he can do, just lie there on the floor.

_[‘You have seven days, Man of Bats.  To make our trade.’]_

And then they are gone.  The air clears.  Nothing else changes.

Bruce lies there with one cheek pressed to the floor, eyes never leaving where he’s sure Damian had just been minutes ago.  So close he could smell him.  Just out of his reach.


	6. coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Damian deserves the chance to grow up. And Bruce deserves to see it.
> 
> There's always collateral damage, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story takes place some time after 'Batman and Red Hood' and 'Batman and Red Robin' and thus, after Damian's death. It goes AU from there.
> 
> Please mind the time stamp. Also, there is a major, additional warning at the bottom, that gives away the ending to this fic.

Present time

Bruce meets Tim at the train station closest to Bristol, about a ten-minute drive.  He gets there at nine.  He wants time to slow down so bad, but the two hours fly right on by as Bruce sits there and watches morning commuters bump shoulders and move about their lives in a dizzying cotillion. 

Tim’s train gets in at 10:45, and the surprise registers immediately on Tim’s face when he sees Bruce kicks something loose in his chest, it knocks his breath away.

“I thought I was meeting you in Bristol?”  Tim says as a greeting.

Bruce lies; it’s sick how easy it is even now, “I had an errand to run; it was no trouble.”

Tim glances around awkwardly, he’s always been bad at this, Tim has; the gratitude part.  Bruce watches as the boy runs a nervous hand through his hair.  “Well, uh, I’m starving.  Want to get food?”

Bruce nods, even though he’s not hungry at all.   Nothing is sitting right with him, food curdles when it hits his stomach and he’s already thrown up four meals in the last five days.  Alfred is growing suspicious and concerned.  Asks him if he can make Bruce and appointment with doctor.

He declines; says he’s fine.  That it must just be a bug.

Tim suggests a diner off of Main and Division.  It smells like coffee and bacon and there are lavishly decorated pies spinning around and around in a glass case in the front.

The waitress points to a booth in the corner for them to sit at and it takes everything Bruce has in him not to slide into the same side that Tim sits in. 

That would be weird, right?  If he sat next to Tim, as opposed to across from him? 

So Bruce just waits for Tim to choose a side and then slides in opposite.  There’s nothing to do really, but watch Tim snag the menus from behind the syrup and condiments on the table and hand one over to Bruce. 

There’s nothing to do but watch Tim study the food options on the laminated paper.  Note that the boy needs a haircut pretty desperately.  Notice that his shoulders are starting to fill out a bit more.  He’s getting broader and growing into his hands finally.

His jaw is bruised a little, and it hadn’t been last night, but Tim seems in usual spirits, no new pain in his frame.

Tim glances up at him, quickly through his eyelashes, catches Bruce staring and then turns his puzzled eyes back to his menu even before Bruce can react to the glance. 

“Uh-“ Tim stutters, staring too intensely at the menu now, “What are you going to get?”

Bruce hasn’t even read the menu; the words on it blur and swim across the page.  “I’m not sure,” Bruce pauses, tries to focus on the first column of options.  “What about you?”

“My stomach says egg sandwich, but my second stomach says waffles.”  He watches as Tim readjusts the menu, the boy practically forcing himself not to look up at him.  “This might have to be a game time decision, coach.”

Bruce smiles, the corner of his mouth lift. 

Tim orders sort of an exorbitant amount of food that includes a breakfast sandwich with double pork taylor roll, a side of potatoes and an additional half a Belgium waffle with whipped cream and strawberries.   The boy washes it down with a bottomless cup of coffee and a diet coke.

He’s not sure where it all goes, because Tim is smaller then Jason and Dick, but eats twice as much.  Alfred had thought he had some sort of parasite when he first started to feed the kid.

Bruce picks at his piece of apple pie for breakfast, shares a few bites with Tim, but mostly he just nurses a cup of coffee that he thinks he can feel eating away at his stomach lining.  He watches Tim eat his food and tries to listen to the words that occasionally spill out between Tim’s pink lips and slightly crooked teeth.

They drag out the meal, or at least Bruce does.  The check sits facing down on the table for twenty-five minutes after the plates are cleared.  Tim must have run out of things to say, because now he’s talking about his teammates, tentatively, and Tim never discusses them at all.  Let alone over burnt diner coffee in a city where he doesn’t even live anymore.

Bruce has half a cup of coffee until he can see the bottom and the waitress won’t come back and fill it for him because he’s wasting a table at the start of lunch rush. 

Tim looks antsy now, he’s squirming in his seat, never could sit still, really, he just fidgets with the sleeves of what has to be one of Jason’s old shirts, because it’s old and thin and just a few sizes to big. 

No one says anything for ten minutes before Tim clears his throat, “Ah, uh, are you… done?”

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else, Tim?” Bruce asks desperately.

Tim looks at him warily, “I just ate like 2000 calories in one sitting.  I might never eat again.”

He’s already sitting still and tense, but Bruce freezes, feels his blood run cold.  Chills erupt over his skin.

Bruce throws done some bills, more then enough to cover the meal and tip and he follows Tim out of the diner into the bright, to bright to be Gotham, day. 

There half way to the burbs in ten minutes before Tim warily asks, “Hey, I know-“ he stops and starts, “-we don’t really talk, but-” 

Tim is watching him closely, he can feel the boys gaze, makes it out at the corner of his eye.  Tim has the most gold in his irises of all the blue eyes he’s ever seen.

“-You're acting kind of weird. Not like _you_ , and I know we don’t talk about it and you don’t want to talk about it, but I want you to know that,” Tim swallows, “You’re acting weird.  And I care, so.”

Bruce wants him to stop talking, but he just readjusts his grip on the wheel, until his knuckles are at ten and two and ghost white. 

“I care.” 

The road that he’s driven every day for over fifteen years offers him nothing.  The yellow lines make him feel lonely as they break in front of him and disappear. 

He takes a deep breath, he’s not going to drown now, “Thank you, Tim.”

The south side driveway is less used and pulls up furthest from the cave, but it’s the one he uses today, furthest from where Tim’s bike is parked.  It’s easiest to cut through the manor than to walk around.

Titus greets them at the door with the biggest butt-wag Bruce has seen in a while and Tim predictably drops to the floor immediately for what he can only describe as a tongue bath. 

“Goo’boy, Tite, who’s a good dog?”  Tim coos in a baby voice.  Damian never spoke to Titus like that, always with a firm hand and voice, no nicknames or kisses that smack the air.

Tim’s the only one who uses the baby voice to Titus, presses kisses to the pup's nose and snout.

After a minute of lavished affection, Tim stands up, Titus mirrors him, and the boy starts brushing off the dog hair, straightening his clothes and jeans.  There’s a warm, pink flush of joy on his face.

“Sorry, it had to happen.” Tim says, simply.

“The Rome papers are in my office,” Bruce replies, his voice dry; he’s starting to go numb.

Tim follows him down the hallway, Titus at their heals, nails clicking on the hardwood floor.

Bruce’s heart is pounding like he just ran a marathon when he opens the French doors into the study. 

The white of the papers, the thumb drive on top of them, sit on his desk in a neat, deliberate pile and Tim sees them and goes to pick them up, helps himself to a manila envelope from the top left drawer of Bruce’s desk. 

“I’m excited about Rome,” Tim says absently while he pushes the papers inside, “I think that—Bruce?”  Tim stops talking, stops rustling the sheets and stares at him with wide, alarmed eyes, “Bruce, you don’t look so good.”

Tim steps forward, extends an arm to touch Bruce’s forehead with the back of his palm and after a minute, the hand moves to his whiskered cheek.  He hears the rasp it makes against Tim’s cool skin.

“You’re burning up, Bruce.” Tim sounds surprised.  And then the teenager gasps when he steps forward, into the skinny boy’s gravity, his mouth against the side of Tim’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce mumbles against Tim’s soft, nice-smelling hair.  It’s nothing overly floral or fruity.  It just smells clean and nice and it’s product free.   With his arms around Tim’s shoulder’s, around the teenager’s arm, Bruce can feel the growth there, the growth he saw at the diner.  

Growth... Freshly turned dirt, ready for more, ready for just a little bit of nurturing where the seeds had been planted.

Growth.  
  
What he’s been seeing with his eyes for the past year can be internalized with the physical contact.  It’s easy to chart things like body mass and growth and calculate formal charts of Tim’s projected build.  But to feel it is something incredibly different.

“Bruce, you already apologized,” Tim grows stiff in his arms, awkwardly rolls his shoulders, but his arms creep up, twine like vines loosely around Bruce’s waist, “I told you that it’s fine—“

Titus’s low frequency growl starts to rumble deep in the air.  He’d forgotten about Titus—

“Bruce, what-“ Tim relaxes when Bruce moves his arms, loosens his grip on the soft cotton of Jason’s shirt. 

He makes eye contact, because Tim’s a good kid. 

He certainly matters. 

He’s such a _good_ kid; smart, handsome, athletic.  He’s loyal and practical and he has a morose sense of humor that, in the right circumstance Bruce would appreciate more then anyone else he knows.  Bruce meets Tim’s blue-honey eyes, eyes inherited from a mother that the kid will never see again. 

It's just that... Tim chose all the wrong roads, all the wrong distractions to keep his hands busy and Bruce got his hands on him and Tim’s a good kid.  And Tim has the time to think of ways where Bruce might have cracks, but if he found them he doesn’t capitalize.

But he’s just a kid.  A kid that looks scared, worried, and that’s _sick_ , it really is, so Bruce leans in slowly and kisses the corner of Tim’s mouth, the left side, and he doesn’t taste anything bad, just left over coffee from his morning brew, but Bruce notices that goosebumps have bloomed over Tim’s visible skin, it matches his own, up to the skin over his neck and collar bones; he doesn’t make any sort of move.  He’s stiff as a board, frozen with… with something.

“Bruce-“ Tim repeats.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce repeats again, takes Tim’s face in hands and before the boy can jerk away, the fear goes wide in Tim’s eyes, dilates his pupils to giant black discs on a pale face.  Before Tim can struggle, Bruce snaps Tim’s neck in half a second.

Titus lunges then, too late.  Too late to do anything but bark, growl, and attack at Bruce’s arms and legs.

Two rows of sharp teeth clamp on his forearm, his son’s dog attacking with vicious, hostile assault.  Titus is out of his mind with rage, like he can’t believe what just happened.  His flesh separates from muscles and Bruce stands there and takes it, takes the abuse and the violence for a moment or two while he holds Tim’s corpse in his arms, hold the limp, lifeless body tight against his chest.

His vision is blurred, tears stream down his face, and Titus is pulling at him, but he knows he’s shaking, he watches as his fingers tremble, card through the soft hair at the nape of Tim’s neck.

When Titus lets go of his mangled arm and lounges for his throat, he reacts mid-sob.  A harsh pant of air shudders out of his throat.  The stronger spine he needs grows; he needs to finish the job.  There has to be a reason for Tim’s sacrifice; for Bruce’s.

“Sorry,” His voice barely works, he’s hoarse, like he’s been screaming.  Like acid built up in his larynx, “Sorry, Tite,” he pushes the hostile dog away, but the advancing animal doesn’t stop his attack and finally Bruce has no choice but to kick the black hound away, send the dog flying two or three feet and he’s out of the room, slamming the door behind him, locking a whimpering, snarling dog inside and holding Tim like a ragdoll.

His heart feels like it’s about to rupture in his chest, and he’s bleeding heavily from his right arm, his hip and calf.  Pieces of his skin are missing and slashed, and he leaves a red trail as he makes his way down the stairs, down the grand foyer and through the clock in the study. 

Each step echoes with a creak and he’s still crying.  Salty tears down his face and he keeps awkwardly petting Tim’s body with his non-injured hand.  He whispers things, mostly apologies and hushing that makes no sense because Tim will never make another sound again.

Because Bruce murdered him. 

He killed Tim.

He’s trading him for his son, for even the _chance_ to see Damian again.  It might not even work.  He might have been conned.  He did this on a mere whim.  Something that isn’t logical or –

No more thinking.  He gathers Tim up and heads to the cave. 

Alfred is nowhere to be found and that’s a good thing.  Bruce doesn’t want to see the disappointment, the _fear_ that would be registered on the man’s face.

Even as he descends the stairs, gripping Tim tightly to his chest, he knows they’re there.  It’s just a few degrees colder, the air is filmy already.  His energy is slowly being sapped away-

_You just killed Tim_.

-it’s harder to keep Tim up by his heart, where he wants him to be carried.  The muscles in his arms are screaming with fatigue when he reaches the bottom. 

“Here,” Bruce rasps out to an empty audience, “Here.  _Please_.”

[‘ _What are we going to do with a dead body?’_ ] The hallow voice asks, [‘Useless, weak flesh.’]

They weren’t going to take Tim?  “What do I do with him?”  His voice breaks in the middle.

_[‘I believe it’s customary for humans to bury their dead, but we care not.  The trade is made.   You paid what was owed.’]_   And the veil, the seam that had been ripped six days ago starts to weave itself back together, shocking, hot white light sparks out with crackling energy. 

A small shape forms in the back, growing with every small step. 

Bruce watches them leave, watches the form take shape slowly in front of him,  all while he’s still cradling the cooling body of his adopted son like an infant, Tim’s cheek pressed against Bruce’s shoulder. 

Bruce never closed Tim’s eyes, he knows that they are still open and vacant.

Damian is close to him now, just a few steps away and he looks the same and Bruce’s chest hurts.  It fucking hurts so much.  He didn’t think this amount of pain was possible.

“ _Dad_?”

Oh he _sounds_ the same.  “ _Damian_ ,” Bruce breathes out into Tim’s hair.  And he knows that he should put Tim down now, go touch his son, sweep him into his arms like he does every night in his dreams. 

He’s waited for this moment.  Done unthinkable acts _just_ for this moment.

But for some reason he can’t just put Tim on the _ground_.  He _can’t_.

“Damian,” he repeats, reaches out with one hand, but he can’t seem to move his eyes away from Tim. 

Bruce’s fingers recognize the material of whatever clothing Damian is wearing from the other side.  He wonders if Tim is wrapped in its softness now too.  It’s the material Bruce notices first, when he grabs ahold of it, fists it and gently pulls Damian even closer until he can feel the warmth of the young boy, the gentle rhythm of the way his new lungs breath in and out. 

It’s so loud next to Tim’s stillness.  The way that nothing moves on Tim unless Bruce does it first.  He’s a puppet master now, and really, that’s all he’s ever been to Tim anyway.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce whispers again, “Thank you, thank you-“

“Father.”

Damian is confused, there’s the hitch in his voice that’s familiar and makes him look up, really look up for the first time.

And his son his there.  New.  Unblemished skin. 

He looks the same.  Same size, shame almond shaped eyes.  Same brown sugar skin. 

His son.

His senses check, he lost direction, just for a few moments, lost direction and what he needed to do.  He knows that he needed to do this now, with Damian in his vision.  He won’t interrogate himself in front of his son.  The prize.  The reward.

His son.

Tim was the body in the wreckage now.  Damian is the one pulled from the scene.

“Damian, go to your room and pack a bag.  We’re going on a trip.”

His son’s blue eyes that mirror his own, they race from the body limp in Bruce’s arms, against his chest to Bruce’s eyes.  The chart paths back and forth, before Damian asks, “Where are we going?”

Bruce lets go of Damian’s arm, the young muscles there.  “Rome.”  He hoist’s Tim’s body further up on his chest, stands up from where he was kneeling.  “We’re going to Rome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of per-meditative filicide. Bruce murders Tim as a sacrifice to get Damian back.


	7. epilogue one; epilogue two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All finished! Thanks for reading! 
> 
> It would be really great-amazing-fantastical if you let me know what you think!

Epilogue 1 – 6 months later

_‘This is Tim Drake’s voicemail, I’m awful at answering phones, but if you leave your name and number I’ll get back to you as quickly as possible.  If you have my other number, go ahead and give that a shot! —- beep!’_

Bruce hangs up, presses play again.

_‘This is Tim Drake’s voicemail, I’m awful at answering phones, but if you leave your name and number I’ll get back to you as quickly as possible.  If you have my other number, go ahead and give that a shot! —- beep!’_

He does it two more times.

Tim sounds happy, no-nonsense amused.  Bruce smiles into the receiver.  He pictures in his mind Tim’s quirky, crooked smile.  The teeth that were just a touch to big for his mouth.

This isn’t his actual voice mail though, it’s a recording that Bruce made.  They, Alfred or Dick or Jason or whoever is in charge of things now, disconnected the line three months and eighteen days after Bruce snapped Tim’s neck.  Three months and eighteen days after Bruce burned the body in the incinerator in the cave.

There hadn’t been any time to clean the ashes though, not fully.  It takes over four hours for a body to burn and on the fifth, Bruce and Damian were secreting out of the house that Bruce had called home his entire life. 

He burned himself when he opened the door to the oven.  It was so hot his skin blistered even through the protective gear, even after an hour of cooling.  He only had time to grab a few handfuls of Tim’s course, grey powdery remains and stow them in an empty medicine jar. 

Alfred no doubt has found the rest.

He’s not sure if he kept quiet about it or not though. 

He wouldn’t put it past the man if he went straight to the authorities.  But Bruce also remembers the shock on Alfred’s face when he asked the older man to watch Damian pack.  Feed him a good meal, because they are going out of the country for a few days.

Alfred has looked like he had been told that miracles exist. 

Bruce isn’t sure what allegiance will win out.  He figures he’ll know when he’s in handcuffs.

Before the service had been disconnected, it had been more then easy for Bruce to log into Tim’s account and listen to the messages.  Several from Jason a day after Tim was already dust.  Each one more hostile and frustrated then the last.  They stop two weeks later.  Jason hasn’t called since.  His last message angry and bitter, ‘I can’t believe you’d go back into WP without even telling me.’

Dick’s message comes two weeks later.  He apologizes for the silence, calls Tim, ‘Timbo’, says they’ll get together really soon.’

The Titans don’t call.  They don’t have that number and Bruce doesn’t have the one that they probably use.

Bruce presses play again.

_‘This is Tim Drake’s voicemail, I’m awful at answering phones, but if you leave-‘_

The last message Tim gets on that number is from a woman named Stephanie.  She had her baby and it’s a girl and her maternity leave is over in two weeks, but the café is having a small get together the day before.  ‘An after-baby shower,’ she laughed.  She invites Tim to the shop, her voice is high and excited.  Happy.

‘You’ll love her, Tim,’ she had said, ‘She’s so perfect.’

And that was it.

_‘-your name and number I’ll get back to you as quickly as possible.  If you have my other number, go ahead and give that a shot! —- beep!’_

The sound of Tim’s neck cracking haunts him.

He sees the boy everywhere.  Those blue eyes with the flecks of amber.

“Dad-“ Damian looks up from the book he’s reading.  Bruce has started to dream in Italian.  “Dad, can we go to see Vesuvius?”

Tim’s voice echoes in his head, “Sure, buddy.”  Vesuvius; a volcano.  People dead, caught under molten hot ash and pumice.  Frozen there forever.  Under the thick blankets.

Their bodies burned down to their skeletons.

Bruce wears Tim around his neck.  Occasionally around his wrist.   Tim’s bones may as well be his bones now.

They’re in Florence right now, Damian tells him where he wants to go and Bruce takes them.  It’s pretty much how it works now.  It should be fun.  They should be having fun.

But Bruce’s heart feels bruised and tender and he wakes up sore every day, like he just ran a gauntlet and Damian looks like he wants to go home.

They don’t talk about bats or birds, but sometimes Damian asks to wear Tim around his own wrist and Bruce will wrap the leather cord around Damian’s skinny eleven-year-old wrist four times.

Tomorrow they’re going to Vesuvius.  
  
  
  


Epilogue 2

It hurts to watch, but he can’t… he can’t not look away.  He watches as Bruce snaps his neck a third time.

The crunch of bone and cartilage is the only sound.

“He killed me?”  He asks the man standing next to him.  His voice is high, unbelieving as he watches the evidence in front of him.

_He traded you._

“How could he do that?”  Tim can’t stop the tears.  Can’t stop the way his sinuses fill up with mucus and he can’t stop the sting of acid in his throat.  His arms, his hands… he doesn’t know what to do with them because they feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each.  He feels so heavy and his chest hurts.

His neck is killing him.

_You’re already dead._

“Am I-“ he’s afraid of the answer, but he needs to ask.  Even when he can’t take his eyes off Bruce and himself.  It’s started over.  Bruce is hugging him and Tim reads the confusion on his face and then Bruce breaks his C2.

That horrible _sound_ and Tim screams in a room that has no walls and no echoes.

“Am I in hell?” He finally asks, his voice small.  Did he deserves hell?  He deserves this?  Bruce killed him.  Bruce _murdered_ him.  He wasn’t anything—

_You’re not in hell._

It _hurts_ , he aches, and he feels like he has no control.

Tim wants his _mom._ He wants to be back on that stupid boat with the Titans even if they’re mad at him.  He wants Jason to call him replacement again.

Instead he cries and cries and cries because he hurts and nothing is fair and Bruce could have just asked him to leave.  He could have just—

It was a trade.  He was dispensable.

“This isn’t heaven.”  He sobs, he hopes it’s not. 

_You can’t pass on._

Tim watches Bruce hold his body in his arms.  A mockery of a hug.  He wants to rip himself away from the man.  How _dare_ he. 

_You’re not done, Tim._

-Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumbr: protagonistically.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: graphic depiction of meditated filicide in the last chapter (the coda).


End file.
